The Love Slave Part 1

The Love Slave.

Bertrice Small.

Zaynab's heart began to hammer against her ribs. What was it about this man's touch that could render her so confused? "Does a Love Slave always undress her master?" she asked him, trying to regain control of her own emotions.

"If it pleases him. She bathes him as you did me today, and both dresses and undresses him. Everything she does for him is meant to give him pleasure of some sort. She is not simply a concubine. She is more. She must learn how to release her own pa.s.sions so that even if her master is not the best of lovers, he will believe that he is. His mere touch must send her into a swooning fit of pleasure." He tipped her face up to his. "Yet a Love Slave never loses command of the situation, even while in the throes of ecstasy. She is mistress of herself at all times, Zaynab. Do you understand me?"

"I am not certain," Zaynab said slowly.

To my friend Janelle Williams Taylor, with love and admiration from her Yankee "cousin," Bertrice Williams Small.

Prologue.

SCOTLAND.

A.D. 929.

Sorcha MacDuff grunted sharply with her pain. Outside the gray stone keep, the early December winds keened mournfully, as if they shared her suffering. A grimace, almost a hard smile, touched her lips briefly as yet another pain tore through her frame. The room inside the keep was cold; so cold that its hard walls were lightly dusted with a thin overlay of frost despite the small fire in the fireplace. The tiny blaze struggled hard to maintain itself, crackling and sending small showers of sparks up the narrow chimney. Its energies were wasted, for the room was made no warmer by its presence.

The naked, straining woman did not feel the icy air creeping between the stones, or from beneath the closed door. She was far too intent upon bringing forth her child. It was her first childbirth, but there would be no others unless she remarried; and she had no intention of doing so. Her husband, Torcull MacDuff, the laird of Ben MacDui, was dead these three months past. Killed in a land dispute with Alasdair Ferguson, laird of Killieloch. Her child, children, she silently amended, for the midwife had said she would bear two bairns, would revenge their father upon the MacFhearghuis, and destroy all the Fergusons of Killieloch so that not a trace of them would remain in the history of the land hereabouts. She was exultant with the thought of her vengeance. "You will not have died in vain, my dear lord," she whispered to herself.

The midwife brought her back to the present. "Push, lady!" the crone urged her. Sorcha MacDuff pushed with all her strength while the midwife groped between her outstretched legs, muttering and nodding. "Again!" the old woman commanded her.

Sorcha bore down with grim intensity. Then, to her amazement, she felt something bulky and slimy sliding from her wet body. She struggled to sit up more and see. The midwife grasped the b.l.o.o.d.y infant by its ankles, held it up and smacked its bottom. The child instantly began to howl loudly.

"Gie me my son!" Sorcha MacDuff growled menacingly. "Gie him to me this instant!" She held out eager arms.

" 'Tis a girlie ye've born, lady," the midwife said as she swiftly wiped the birthing blood from the wailing child. Then wrapping a shawl about the baby, she handed her to her mother.

A daughter? She had not even considered a daughter, but as the second child was certain to be a son, Sorcha decided that she was pleased to have a daughter as well. Two sons would have been difficult They would have probably spent more time fighting each other than fighting the Fergusons of Killieloch. Nay. A daughter was a good thing. She could be used to cement an alliance with an ally. Sorcha looked down on the baby in her arms. "Gruoch," she said softly. "Ye'll be called Gruoch. 'Tis a family name."

The baby looked up at its mother with wonderful blue eyes. She was a very pretty creature with a tuft of gold down upon her head.

"Lady, ye've the other yet to birth," the midwife said, breaking her reverie. "Hae ye nae pains?"

"Aye," Sorcha MacDuff replied bluntly. "I hae pains, but I dinna mind them for I hae been too fascinated wi' my wee la.s.sie."

"Ye hae best put yer mind to t'other one, lady," the midwife said sourly. "A laddie is more important to the MacDuffs than the la.s.sie yer cradling. Gie her to me now. I'll put her in her cot where she belongs." The midwife almost s.n.a.t.c.hed the infant from her mother, tucking her into the carved cradle by the struggling fire so that Sorcha MacDuff could put her mind to the business of bearing the MacDuff son now striving to be released from her womb.

The second child, its pa.s.sage unblocked by the birth of its sibling, was born far more quickly. It pushed impatiently into the world, crying loudly as it came.

"Gie me my lad!" Sorcha MacDuff cried excitedly.

The midwife wiped the blood from the twin, peering carefully down at it as she did so. Then she shook her head sadly. " 'Tis another la.s.s," she told the pale-faced woman. "The MacDuffs of Ben MacDui hae died wi' out a laird." She wrapped a shawl about the second squalling infant, sighing mournfully even as she did so. Then she handed her to her mother, but Sorcha MacDuff recoiled angrily.

"I dinna want her," she hissed. "What guid is a second daughter to me? I wanted a son!"

"Will ye question the will of G.o.d above, lady?" the midwife demanded. The children were both girls, and there was no help for it. "G.o.d hae seen fit to gie ye twin daughters, lady. Both are healthy bairns. Surely ye canna deny them. Thank G.o.d for your guid fortune. Many a childless la.s.s would envy ye."

"I'll nae deny my wee Gruoch," Sorcha MacDuff said, "but the other is naught but a burden to me. Gruoch is the heiress of Ben MacDui now, but what good is the other? I needed a son!"

" 'Tis a harsh land and time in which we live, lady," the midwife reminded her. "The bairns are both strong now, but what if one took sick and died? Wi'out the other, there would be nae MacDuff at all to inherit. The secondborn has her place as well, I'm thinking. Ye hae best gie her a name too."

"Call her Regan, then," said the disappointed woman.

" 'Tis a laddie's name," the midwife said, shocked.

"She should hae been a lad," Sorcha MacDuff replied stonily. " 'Tis the price she must pay for disappointing me." Then she grunted as a final pain swept over her and she birthed the placenta.

Shaking her head, the midwife placed Regan MacDuff in the second cradle waiting by the little fire. Then she turned back to attend to her mistress. She had hardly finished this final task when the door to the room burst open with a bang. Several armed men strode boldly in, having pushed their way past the feeble and frightened MacDuff clansmen guarding the keep. The midwife shrieked, recognizing the green Ferguson plaid wrapped about the intruders. She cowered by her mistress.

A tall, hard-eyed man grasped the terrified woman by the arm, and gazing fiercely down into her face, demanded, "Where are the bairns?" The midwife was speechless with fear, but Alasdair Ferguson followed her gaze to the two cradles by the fire. "Kill them!" he ordered his men fiercely. "I'll hae nae more MacDuffs threatening my lands."

Naked, and still bloodied, the new mother struggled to arise from the birthing table, her hands reaching out to grasp at the MacFhearghuis's dagger. Without even looking at her, he slapped her hands away. "b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she shrieked at him.

"They are la.s.ses, my lord!" the midwife finally managed to gasp in defense of the helpless babies. "La.s.ses canna harm ye!"

"La.s.ses? Both bairns?" His look was incredulous. Then his eyes swung to the naked woman on the birthing table. "So," he said mockingly, "Torcull MacDuff could only get la.s.ses on ye, Sorcha. I'd hae gie ye sons, and yet will, my hot-eyed b.i.t.c.h. Ye should hae wed wi' me instead of MacDuff."

"Is three wives not enough for ye, MacFhearghuis?" she demanded scornfully. "I wed wi' the man I loved. Though ye hae killed him, I dinna regret my decision." She made no effort to cover herself before him, or before his men, who were wise enough not to stare.

"I could kill yer bairns, Sorcha MacDuff," he said coldly, his eyes narrowing to contemplate her. Even naked and b.l.o.o.d.y with the efforts of her childbirth, she was still a handsome woman to be desired, and desire her he did. She had refused to marry him almost two years ago this very month, choosing his enemy instead. Torcull the Fair, the MacDuff had been called. He was a tall young man with shining gold hair and an easy smile. Well, thought the MacFhearghuis, he would not be so handsome now that the worms were feasting on him; and his widow would regret her previous actions toward the laird of Killieloch. To protect her bairns she would do exactly what he wanted her to do. Her maternal instincts would far outweigh her pride and her outrage when he made her his leman. He had once sworn to her that she would suffer for refusing him and choosing the MacDuff instead. Now he would have her, and he would dispose of her as he saw fit.

Alasdair Ferguson released his iron grip on the midwife's arm, shoving her toward the cradles. "Unwrap both bairns," he said. "I would see for myself if ye both speak the truth. Unwrap them, and lay them on their mam's belly so I may see them together. Quickly, old crone! I hae nae any more time to waste this day."

The midwife scurried to do his bidding, unwrapping the protective covering from each of the babies and laying them atop their mother's now shivering body. "There they be, my lord," she quavered. "Two wee la.s.sies as ye can plainly see."

The laird of Killieloch stared down at the infants. With a single finger he gently examined each one's genitals, seeking for a tiny manhood, but there was none. Both were la.s.ses, without a doubt. He grinned briefly, pleased, and then an idea came to him. "Which of them is the firstborn?" he demanded.

"This one," the midwife said, pointing. "Her name is Gruoch."

"How can ye tell?" he asked her. "They seem to be identical in both features and form to me. How can ye separate them, old woman?"

"The firstborn has clear, bright blue eyes, my lord," the midwife said. "Look and see. The secondborn's eyes, though blue now, hint of possibly another hue to come in time. Nae the firstborn. Her eyes are wi'out a doubt blue. Can ye nae see it?"

He peered down at the children. "Aye," he said impatiently, although he really could see no difference between the twin girls. "Wrap them up and put them back in their cradles." He turned to the woman lying on the birthing table. She was pale, but defiant. "I'll spare yer bairns, Sorcha MacDuff. The old woman is right. La.s.ses are nae a danger to me and mine. But I'll hae yer firstborn, Gruoch, for my heir, Ian. The feud between our clans is now settled, for the lands in dispute between us will be Ferguson lands wi' this match."

Sorcha glared at him. She knew she had no choice in the matter. He would have her precious Gruoch for his lout of a son, whatever she said. In that moment Sorcha MacDuff hated Alasdair Ferguson with every fiber of her being, but she would have to accept his terms. She was a clever woman, and despite her ire she could see the good side to the situation. The stronger Fergusons would consider the lands of Ben MacDui theirs from the moment the betrothal agreement was signed and sealed. They would aid the weaker MacDuff clansmen to defend those lands. Gruoch would grow up in peace and safety. And I will have my leisure in which to consider my revenge upon the Fergusons of Killieloch, she thought craftily. They had killed her Torcull. Now they were annexing his lands. They would pay dearly for their treachery one day.

"What if Gruoch dies? Children are fragile," She said practically.

"Ye've two daughters, and if Ian should perish of some childish complaint, I've half a dozen sons to take his place. If both yer la.s.ses die, however, these lands are forfeit to me and mine. But ye need nae fear, Sorcha MacDuff, yer la.s.ses face nae danger from me. It is better to be united by our blood than by conquest, I think. It will ensure a real peace between our peoples. Then I can turn my attentions to yer Robertson relations," he mocked her.

"What of my other la.s.s?" Sorcha asked him. "She must have a respectable portion for a dowry, for she'll want a husband one day."

"She goes to the Church," the MacFhearghuis answered firmly. "I will hae nae other clan laying claim to these lands through the other wee wench. But she'll nae go until Gruoch and Ian are properly wedded, and bedded, Sorcha MacDuff. If, G.o.d forfend, we lose the firstborn, we'll hae the secondborn in reserve." Then seeing her shiver, Alasdair Ferguson took his own plaid and put it over her. "I'll fetch the priest and hae him make all the arrangements. Ye'll be informed when all is in readiness. Ye and yer la.s.sies are now under my protection, Sorcha MacDuff. Ye nae fear any longer." So saying, he turned, and signaling to his men to follow him, the MacFhearghuis departed.

As the door slammed behind him, Sorcha struggled to climb from the birthing table. Stumbling across the room, she tore the dark green and blue plaid with its narrow red and white stripes from her body and flung it into the fire. "Fetch me water, old woman!" she snarled at the midwife. "I would wash the Ferguson stench from my person!"

The midwife scuttled to obey her mistress, quickly bringing a basin of warm water from the kettle over the fire, along with a clean rag. "Here ye be," she said, a little afraid of the look on the lady's face.

Sorcha MacDuff scrubbed at her body almost violently. Dark thoughts swirled about in her head. She was not certain yet how she would revenge herself upon the Fergusons and their ilk; but she would do it! The MacFhearghuis had foolishly given her all the time she would need to effect her plan, whatever it was to be. In his great arrogance he had decided that all was settled, but it would not be settled between them until she had taken her vengeance for Torcull's death and the robbery of his lands. No Ferguson would ever hold sway over Ben MacDui. She would let them protect her, and protect her bairns, but in the end she would find a way to triumph over Alasdair Ferguson and his clan. Suddenly a wave of weakness swept over her, and she staggered slightly.

"Lady, ye should be in yer bed," the midwife said, coming to her aid. "Ye'll need all yer strength if yer to nurse both those sweet bairns. They'll be hungry soon enough, I'm thinking."

"I cannot nurse them both," Sorcha said. "Find someone to nurse Regan. She can take the la.s.s to her cottage as soon as possible." The new mother climbed into her bed. A bed empty of a husband now, she considered bitterly, yanking the fox robe over herself.

The midwife pursed her lips in condemnation. "There is nae reason ye canna nurse both yer bairns, lady," she said sternly. "Yer a strapping la.s.s, and I can see the milk is already rising in yer b.r.e.a.s.t.s. There's more than enough for two."

"My milk is for Gruoch only, old witch," Sorcha snapped irritably. "Find a wet nurse for the other." Then she turned her face to the wall.

Shaking her head with disapproval, the midwife moved to the cradles to look down on the two infants, who slumbered peacefully now, unaware of the fates they faced: one to be a bride for the Fergusons, the MacDuffs of Ben MacDui's bitterest enemies, and the other little la.s.s for the Church, whether she would or no. The heiress, and the abbess, the midwife thought wryly with a soft chuckle. Then she slipped from the room quietly, closing the door silently behind her.

Part I.

SCOTLAND.

A.D. 943.

Chapter 1.

The little hall at Ben MacDui was blue with smoke, for the chimney drew poorly. Sorcha MacDuff, seated at the high board, gazed down upon her numerous offspring tumbling about the room. Six little b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, and a seventh in her fertile womb. Five were boys, the fourth born a girl. She felt nothing for them. They were Fergusons. Her mother love, at least that which she possessed, was for Gruoch MacDuff, her firstborn. For Gruoch's twin, Regan, she allowed a small bit of affection. Regan had grown to be much like her father, Torcull, of sainted memory. The girl had his daring, and was brave to the point of foolishness. Sorcha could not help but admire her secondborn twin.

In the spring after her MacDuff daughters had been born, Alasdair Ferguson had returned to Ben MacDui. The betrothal contracts, drawn up by the Fergusons, had been signed then in the presence of a priest. They could have said anything and Sorcha would have known no different for she could neither read nor write. The priest told her that Gruoch would be Ian Ferguson's wife as soon as her womanly flow began. Regan would then go to a convent on the west coast of Scotland to devote her life to G.o.d. The matter settled, the MacFhearghuis dismissed the cleric and raped the widow MacDuff, keeping her locked with him in her bedchamber for three days while he had his way with her. Nine months later she birthed him a son.

In the years that followed, Alasdair Ferguson visited his leman on a regular basis, as her growing family attested to, but he would not marry her, nor would she have had him if he had asked. Three times Sorcha MacDuff had gone in secret to the old witch woman in the glen, paid an exorbitant fee, drunk a disgusting potion, and aborted her violator's offspring. When he learned of her deeds, he had sought out the witch, hung her from a tree, burned her cottage, then returned to Ben MacDui and beaten Sorcha MacDuff so badly she'd been unable to arise from her bed for a week. After that she bore his b.a.s.t.a.r.ds without complaint, but she could not love them. They were Fergusons.

Outside, she heard the blare of a hunting horn, and then the hall door burst open to admit Alasdair Ferguson in the company of his two eldest sons, Ian and Cellach. Sorcha MacDuff arose slowly. Her time was quite near. "My lord," she greeted him quietly, signaling the servants to bring food for the men.

"I've brought a stag," Alasdair Ferguson said by way of greeting, and kissing her mouth in a show of proprietorship, he seated himself at the board.

The servants scurried to bring him wine, bread, and meat. They knew he was not a patient man.

Ian and Cellach Ferguson seated themselves next to their father and began to stuff their handsome faces. They had not bothered to greet Sorcha MacDuff. Reaching out, Alasdair cuffed the nearest of the pair.

"Hae ye the decency to greet the lady Sorcha properly before you eat her food, ye pair of uncouth cubs," Alasdair growled at them. " 'Tis her home yer in and her table at which ye sit."

" 'Tis Ferguson property," Cellach said surlily, rubbing the spot where his father's hand had made contact with his skull.

With a roar, the MacFhearghuis leapt to his feet and knocked his second son onto the floor. " 'Tis Ferguson land because I made it so," he said, "but before it was Ferguson land it was MacDuff land, and Ferguson or MacDuff, it is this lady's home. Ye'll mind yer manners in her presence whether I'm here or nae." He gave the young man a kick. "Get up, and go eat in the stables where ye belong."

Cellach scrambled to his feet. "I dinna know why ye dinna gie me Gruoch to wife instead of Ian. Then I would hae had my own lands," he said.

"Aye," his father rejoined, "and ye'd be looking to my lands, ye would, ye greedy little beggar!" He aimed another blow at the boy, who this time skillfully ducked it, running out of the hall. Then he turned to his eldest, but Ian was quickly on his feet, bowing to Sorcha MacDuff and thanking her for her hospitality.

Reseating himself, Ian said, "And how are the bairns, lady? They all appear to look well. My sister Sine grows prettier every day, I'm thinking. 'Tis nice to hae a sweet wee sister." He took up a joint of meat and bit into it.

"Yer father's b.a.s.t.a.r.ds seem to thrive," Sorcha MacDuff answered him pleasantly. "All my bairns do, thanks be to G.o.d."

"About my la.s.s," Alasdair Ferguson said, "I want to take her back home wi' me. I've nae a woman in the house but the servants. Sine's a Ferguson, my only daughter. 'Tis time she took her place. There's nae shame to any of our bairns for I've acknowledged them all."

"Take her, then," Sorcha MacDuff said. "Take all yer other b.a.s.t.a.r.ds too, my lord They're nothing to me. I've my Gruoch."

He shook his head at her words. "Yer a hard woman, Sorcha MacDuff," he told her. "Very well, I'll take Donald, Aed, and Giric as well. They're all old enough to be separated from ye. Ye'll keep Indulf, Culen, and the new bairn for the time being." He quaffed down the wine in his cup, and the servant by his side hurriedly refilled it. " 'Tis about Gruoch I've come, Sorcha. Surely her flow has come upon her by now. She celebrated her thirteenth birthday last December, and 'tis now April. We hae a marriage to consummate. Ian is twenty-three, and more than ready for a mate. He's populating the whole d.a.m.ned district wi' his b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, woman. He needs his wife!"

"Ye'd take my la.s.s away so soon?" Sorcha began to weep in a genuine show of emotion. "Dinna take her, my lord. Not yet."

"In the name of all the saints, woman," he said angrily, for he hated a crying woman, "she's nae going away from ye! She and Ian will live here at Ben MacDui for the time being. That way ye'll be wi' her when she sp.a.w.ns her first bairn nine months after the wedding. I may nae hae experience wi' daughters, but I know a la.s.s needs her mam at a time like that. Hush yer howling, Sorcha, and answer me. Is Gruoch's flow upon her now, or nae?"

"Only just this month," she said slowly, although both Gruoch and her sister had begun their woman's flow the previous autumn. They had kept it a secret in order to have more time, but now it mattered no longer, Sorcha thought to herself. She was to finally have her revenge after all these years.

"Then let us hae the wedding!" the MacFhearghuis replied with enthusiasm. " 'Tis what I've waited for all these years, woman!"

"Ye canna hae a wedding just because ye want a wedding," Sorcha told him coyly. "We hae preparations to make, my lord."

"Ye've had thirteen years for those preparations, Sorcha MacDuff," he answered. "Today be the twentieth day of the month of April. Our children will wed in seven days' time." He turned to his son. "Ian! What think ye? Ye'll be a married man in another few days at long last. She's grown into a pretty wench. Yer a lucky young fellow!"

"Aye, Da," Ian Ferguson answered his father dutifully. He was an attractive man with russet hair and blue eyes.

"Where is Gruoch?" Alasdair Ferguson demanded. He peered about the hall, but only his children were in evidence.

Sorcha shrugged. " 'Tis spring," she said by way of explanation.